A virus is one of the oddest entities in the universe. Neither living nor dead, it exists in a suspended netherworld, waiting to encounter a creature it can invade. Unlike normal life-forms, a virus cannot replicate itself; it is dependent on hijacking the machinery of a living cell in order to reproduce. They do this fantastically well, attaching themselves to the surface of a cell before penetrating it. Whatever vital functions the cell was carrying out are forgotten as it transforms into a kind of zombie factory to create more virus. Eventually—such as in the case of influenza—the doomed cell explodes, spewing out up to a million little viral soldiers, many of which are deformed mutants. The functional ones attack new cells, churning out even more viral swarms. They are deeply creepy little fuckers.

Still, Artie Smert hadn’t asked me to describe the characteristics of a virus. He’d asked why a woman would want to study germs. This question once again strikes me mute, which is fortunate, because if I’d had the wits to answer, everyone would have witnessed language incompatible with party manners. In my case, however, I’d taken a roundabout route to my expertise. I started my career as an internal medicine doctor with an aid organization, and it wasn’t until after my husband died of a sudden undiagnosed illness that I returned to the States and completed a fellowship in infectious disease, followed by special training in battling pandemics. My mentor at the CDC, a man named Waliedine Katz, turned me on to the artiovirus.

“And, yes,” Mr. Smert goes on, oblivious to my mental detour, “you’d be the perfect person to explain the efforts to defeat the—” He breaks off, fluttering both hands at his temples to indicate the worst outcome of the virus.

“I can send you abstracts from some of the latest papers,” I say. I catch Hannah’s eye and wave, hoping she’ll interpret the gesture as a distress signal. It seems to work; she nudges Compton and Vani and points in my direction. Even from a distance, I sense their protectiveness; this is the first time I’ve been at a public function in a very long time.

“Sure,” says Smert. His beady eyes tighten, focusing on my face. “But what people would really want to hear about, I think, is your personal story during the pandemic.”

I take an involuntary step back. Could Smert possibly know the real reason I left the CDC?

Having alluded to the subject he’d like to broach, Mr. Smert inexplicably stalls out. To combat my escalating pulse, I take in and blow out small, measured dollops of air, waiting for him to bring down the hammer. Finally, I do it myself.

“You want to talk about why I’m no longer at the CDC, I’m guessing.”